Pants Down Low, you Chakkas!

This is perhaps the longest gap I have taken after a post. But oh well, my mind was only accumulating angst and more angst to spill onto this page. I will abandon my Austen-ish and Wharton-ish tones tonight and unleash.

 Some might say I'm just PMS-ing...'cause it's the 'IN-THING' to say nowadays, amongst us Neo-Imperialistic, Third World inhabitants who dare not step outside their cocoa shells of an English medium lifestyle. Or rather American, considering how Gay Rights strike more of the soft chords of the heart now than the fact that mothers are hurling their infants onto railway tracks as an alternative death to starvation. It's the best kind of excuse, really. The most poetic of it's sort. Haye. (sigh)
What if I tell you that the world around me appears to be involved in this wonky jamboree? YES! Look! They're all shaking their bums in each other's faces and gyrating their delicate waists into each other's hearts. What if I say I'm not the one PMS-ing but it is them? I am not mad North by North-west, I swear! I swear by all the holy books and not just one. I'm a passionate and true advocate of secularism, you know.
So what if my unholy eyes notice the exceptionally low, almost-drooping-down-their-behinds, tugging-at-their-pelvis-for-the-last-breath Pants?! Is it really that my eyes were not baptized when I was born?
Then I'd say, their mind's ought to be exorcised for labeling artists (or rather sculptors, *hint hint*) who possess a peculiar way of walking, talking, hand-gesturing, a "chakka". Now this is the point where I really lose all my sense of secularism, imperialism, literary-ness, modernity, humour, PMS-ing because this is when I realize that society will never change. It will always consist of PEOPLE. People will always talk and churn out labels with their English Medium cum butchered Urdu minds that will go onto to be polished by the liberal arts colleges of the American. Or Cambridge and Oxford. Really, that's as far as they go.
I mean it's one thing to disapprove and it's completely another to catwalk around school with your pants down low, flashing a rolex in one hand and vociferously condemning the YOU-ESS of AY in your World History classes and going around calling a poor old sculptor a "chakka".
My own PMS-ing and imperialistic indulgences go as far as 1.5 gram chunky bar of Snickers. My pants are breathing their last but they're sure not, falling to their (my? *chuckle*) knees and begging my pelvis to let the world take a hormonal peak at my hot-pink boxer shorts.

Hah! I don't wear any!

Just.

A twist of the lip, a knit of the brow. This air around me is inflated with a hot hubbub of pricking murmurs. A fit of scream on the left and someone bawls pointlessly on the right. Inflated. All their chests are inflated with words and sounds and noises that they have stifled the air with. There is talk but no discussion. There is laughter but no joy and there is only noise and no music. I part my lip to utter something of significance but My Voice is overwhelmed by the reflections of yesterday's mistake and my throat dampens with the stench of a hollow life. I twist my tongue; I utter only to lose my words to this layered atmosphere and I see them ricochet back, floating into non-recyclable cans of waste.
There are times when crowds end up strengthening my sense of singularity. I feel like the only one; one among many. Their backs, shins, shoulders and arms reflect my voice like  and the a deaf mirror. The indifference of their pretentious nostrils, indifferent eyes and vacant words obstructs the view of the breathing skies.
There is a time when we feel like no other. The moment envelopes us and we recede into ourselves, and the people that surround us only serve as unpleasant reminders that we are needed without and not within. There are days we cannot relate and we begin to question if we really belong. To take such moments as ones in ecstasy or solemn depression is in our power.
To lose control is frailty?
 We are never alone until we have our self to ourselves. When we let ourselves fly outside our bodies, we temporarily undo every delicate string that ever held us back. We learn to unbind. We move on from "we" to "I". Perhaps, at times, detachment saves us from losing our minds to the heat of Insignificance. Perhaps, some times it serves us well to just not belong.

Monotony is not a thing.

Listening to one song repeatedly, multiplies the enjoyment of each word, each melody. When I wear it out like a ragged, over-bleached piece of linen, I become a victim of a little thing we like to call monotony. But when I listen to the same after three long and quick years, the song does not remain the same. Every word, every riff, every fragment of that worn-torn linen comes back fine and recycled. I iron the cloth with a different meaning and continue to enjoy the task all over again.

 I can assure you the man I saw yesterday was a different man today and I can tell you that these eyes do not see as they did the day before. Even these walls and windows do not stand the same as yesterday. It cannot be, but there are times when we choose to neglect and overlook these differences.  

 My dear readers, monotony does not exist. Words may be engraved but to read, hear and feel is a matter of our very own choice. In the gap of three years, these eyes saw much of the incomprehensible, heard a little of the unutterable and touched a bit of what used to be intangible. I cannot tell how because neither you nor I are willing to devote so many minutes to this crippling machine. I can assure you that you change every day and when these days turn to years these changes slip into the garb of maturity. We may not be able to calculate these transformations unless they devise some calculator of the many incalculable stream of words that ripple through us every moment. But to receive these changes with pangs of pain or joy is within our grip. We may choose to master our response to every bit of our life and no one but ourselves exercise the power to become the sort of men we want to be.

Stars in Her Eyes.

Violins are playing in the background and a strong patch of light encircles the whole of her; only her in a large dark room. She feels singled out, in a special way. The modest slit in her long, sequinned mermaid-cut gown parts slightly for her demure foot as it peeps forward, strapped in a pair of sleek, red Blahniks. You can almost trace the veins that run beneath the white skin of her long foot. Her walnut brown curls wave down and settle softly a little above her right breast. She looks up, blinking into the light. A grimace cuts across her lips. She breathes in the mist of romance tonight. She feels like a movie star.

The violins grow louder and more dramatic as she circles her thumb over her iPod. It's 10pm. The station lights have shut but she managed to get a bench near a small snack shop while waiting for the last train home. Old Charlamagne, the store manager, and her boss must have been in an exceptionally jolly mood today to have let her borrow the pair of Blahniks from last season's collection. The lie about a date with Johnny helped too, nonetheless. Unfortunately the checkered long-skirt, bought in a sale last month, had ripped when she ran to get Charla's coffee in the afternoon. But nothing could make her unhappy tonight. Sunday had finally arrived. She smiled as she pictured herself lying down in her one-bedroom apartment, with a copy of Pride and Prejudice and dye in her hair. Thanks to the extra ten dollar bonus this month, she might be able to treat herself to a bottle of Svedka this weekend too.
She feels like a star. Only there is no red carpet to lead her on but the screeching, whistles of the 10.15 from Manhattan to Brooklyn.

View from the 9th floor

I will never forget my first blog post. I will never forget my first blog. Both came to life when I was miles away away from home.
There are marked shades of duality. It is nearly 6am and it is nearly 5am.
It is nearly 5am now. I look down on this city from the ninth floor of this building and I see a sea of lights as if the stars had decided to adorn the earth instead of the sky tonight where skyscrapers... I forget it is morning. These skyscrapers sparkle and stand so tall, almost like a legion of knights. I wonder whether these knights are armed. They certainly carry an air of nobility but I'd like to see the King who has chosen these knights. So many years have gone by. Years have flied past. Yet I have never seen the King here...or 'a' king for that matter. These highways have been laid out for a ceremony. But it looks like that here every where any way, as if they're all preparing for a ceremony to greet their King. I still have not seen the King. The people appear content nonetheless, perhaps why the King never appears. Or maybe there is no king and there never was one.
At this height I can hear the wind roar against these wide glass windows and I can see the ninth floor doesn't stand very tall among these skyscrapers.
A snore rings to my left. An eye screws right. I lie ahead. I must go back. These elevators do not cover miles. The suitcase must be zipped and I must go back. I am your average Robert Frost.
Not an hour has passed by. It's nearly 6am.